


Make Tea, Not War

by howdoyouwhisk (popsongdelusional)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic, Hair-pulling, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Post-The X Factor Era, Service Kink, Service Submission, The X Factor Era, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsongdelusional/pseuds/howdoyouwhisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Is he the messiest?" </i>
</p><p>  <i>"Yes." </i></p><p>  <i>"Does he do the washing up?" </i></p><p>  <i>"Never." </i></p><p>  <i>"Does he make his bed?" </i></p><p>  <i>"Never." </i></p><p>  <i>"Hopeless, hopeless flatmate. Would you rather be with one of these guys?" </i></p><p>  <i>"Nope!"</i></p><p>Or: Louis attempts to become a better flatmate, much to Harry's dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Tea, Not War

This thing with Harry and him, see. It's all a bit odd from the word _go_.

"Lou. Louuuu. Lou _is_."

It's just the two of them in the living room of Harry's family's bungalow. The other lads filed out ages ago to play a game of footie in the field, and while normally Louis would jump at the chance to show off—he's ace at football, and he's taken to imagining the shock and horror on Liam's face when Louis annihilates him—he'd been eying Harry's spare laptop since they arrived. The ache of social networking withdrawal has settled deep in his bones, shite mobile hardly doing the trick.

So it's a relief, naturally, when Harry finally catches on and offers it to him. And he stays back with Louis instead of joining the rest, too, informing Niall very sincerely that, "There's nothing wrong with natural urges," when Niall cracked a joke about monitoring Louis' internet activity.

As if Louis wouldn't look at porn with the lot of them there anyway.

They've been sat on the sofa nearly an hour when, out of the blue, something prods him hard in the cheek. He flails, fingers fumbling on the keyboard. _out in the middle of bloody nowahgnb_ , says his Facebook comment when he looks at it, and he's managed to post it prematurely as well. He hits _delete_ with gusto and shifts up on his hip to look at Harry, who's sprawled on the other side of the couch. Harry's still got a leg extended, toe a centimeter from Louis' face.

At least he's wearing socks.

"Harry," he says. "Mate. Compadre. Am I going mad or did you just touch my face with your massive, smelly toe?"

"No," says Harry, the filthy little liar. He pops his gum, tipping his head back over the arm of the cushy beige sofa. His throat is long and pale and pretty, the curls swooping up around his ears drawing Louis' eye. Louis shifts in discomfort.

Harry's other foot is tucked under Louis' thigh. He wiggles his toes. He's been restless all morning. Louis supposes it's only fair Harry's allowed a good bout of cabin fever every now and again, so he caves and gives him the attention he's been gunning for.

"All right," he says. He snaps shut the lid of the laptop, slapping his palm down on top. " _Why_ didn't you touch my face with your massive, smelly toe, then?"

Harry curls his hand under his chin, pretends to contemplate the question. "I don't think that's the sort of thing one does in polite society, Louis. But if you want me to…" He widens his eyes, the picture of innocence. He's such a little shit. "I could be accommodating. I'm told I'm a very accepting person."

"Yeah, by your mum."

"She does say that," he agrees, nodding.

Louis huffs, leans forward to deposit the laptop safely onto the coffee table, and pounces with a jubilant battlecry. He clamps his thighs around Harry's hips, pinning him in place, and bounces down on his stomach, knocking a grunt out of him. Harry squirms valiantly beneath him, but at the end of the day, Louis's great and Haz is an uncoordinated mess, so clearly there's no contest. He gets Harry down easily, his fingers twining tight round his wrists.

Maybe a bit too easily, now that he thinks on it. Harry isn't actually, like, attempting escape or anything. He's just blinking up at Louis, a sly smile on his face, all rosy-cheeked and fond. Louis isn't sure he understands how wrestling works.

Anyway, it's one thing to sit atop your mate when he's trying to get away: it's another entirely to perch on his stomach like a total arse when he's just letting you. Harry's smile turns shy, in some way expectant. "Hey, Louis," he says softly, and Louis, well. He panics.

He dips his head and does the first thing he can think of. He sucks a love bite into the crook of Harry's neck.

Later, he'll have time to reflect that it's urges like this one that get people placed on sex offender registries. Now, however, he can't think anything at all over the sound of Harry's short gasp. It's just a hiccup of a breath, really, but he breaks Louis' grip on his wrists as he takes it. His hands fumble upward, slapping Louis in the chest before finding purchase on the back of his t-shirt.

He bucks, almost knocking Louis off the sofa before Louis pins down his shoulder, and it's about that time Louis realises this whole thing may have been a slight miscalculation on his part.

But it's too late and he's already committed, so he mutters, "Be still," and clamps his lips against the soft underside of Harry's jaw. It's only a moment, he thinks, before Harry's breaths start to quiet. Louis slides up, brackets around Harry's stomach, and Harry's knees go up at once as his body curves around Louis.

The angle is awkward, the way he's bent putting a strain on his back and neck. Louis knows those are just two of a million different reasons he should stop, the one in bold letters at the top of the list being that he and Harry are mates, and bandmates at that. But Harry's big hands tease over the dip of his waist, hot through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he doesn't stop at all, not for the longest moment.

As soon as he eases the pressure, grazing Harry's skin with his teeth, Harry goes limp and languid beneath him, his hands drifting down to either side of his head on the armrest. His legs slide back flush against the sofa, and Louis scoots backward into the free space, pointedly ignoring that this puts his arse against Harry's crotch. When he pulls back, he sees Harry's got his eyes shut, chest heaving. The color's high on his cheeks, and Louis' left a mark on his neck, an uneven splotch that looks like it must throb and is already beginning to purple.

And that's just—that's just not on, that's not _normal_ , is it? He doesn't know what possessed him, why he thought he could do something like that. He stares, taken aback at himself in a way he's never been before.

"I'm—bloody hell, Haz, I'm sorry," he chokes out, scrambling backward till he hits the opposite armrest.

Harry's eyes shoot open and he sits halfway up, propped up on his elbows, looking alarmed. "Where are you— _Lou_." He reaches out blindly, grabs Louis' hands, and tugs till he's got Louis up on his knees.

"I don't know why I did that," he says, but it doesn't look like Harry's listening. He gives another pull, tipping Louis forward. Then they're chest to chest, Harry's hands wrapped around his and his breath rustling Louis' fringe, and that's bad enough before Harry twists his own wrists and somehow manages to get Louis' fingers back around them.

"Stay here," Harry says, so Louis stays, straddling Harry with his face tucked into his neck, hands around his wrists. He knows the mark he left is resting beneath his cheek, the skin there slightly slick.

"Harry," he says. His own breath warms his face. "Harry, I think this might be a bit weird."

"You're weird," says Harry after a beat. It's just a rumble, really, vibrating through Louis. Louis can't quite glean the tone of his voice, if it's petulant or contrary or just pleased with himself. Maybe all three at once. "Can't just give me a love bite and then leave, Louis. A boy might think you don't respect him."

"I _don't_ respect you," he says. It may be slightly belied by the fact that he's started, without even realising, to stroke the side of Harry's hand with his knuckle. "Yesterday I saw you pick up that biscuit Zayn dropped and eat it." Harry shrugs, jostling him, and sighs. Louis' arms are starting to strain now. He gives up the pretense that this whole thing isn't bizarre and rests his head on Harry's chest. Whatever, he thinks, probably can't get any madder than giving your new mate a love bite anyway.

He's almost managed to relax when Harry says into the quiet of the room: "Do you think it'll work? As, like. As a band? Do you think we'll work? I want us to."

There are a thousand replies on the tip of Louis' tongue, like _don't know what I'll do if we don't_ and _you'd be a star all on your own, Haz_. But when he tips his chin up to steal a glance, he catches Harry's eyes flutter closed, and he looks so content lying there with Louis on top of him that Louis couldn't imagine saying anything to break the spell.

"Yeah, Hazza. Got you and Payno, how could we lose," he says instead, letting free one of Harry's wrists to slide his fingers into Harry's curls. Harry tips his head into the touch.

"And you," he says. The hand Louis freed snakes between them, petting over Louis' hip. "And Niall and Zayn, too, but. Don't think it'd work without you, Lou. You're good for us."

He smiles in that way that crinkles his eyes, the smile he can't help. _Aren't you sweet, Haz_ , he thinks, and he almost says it, thinks he could get it out teasing enough he'd get away with it, but. "Yeah, that's me. Keep ol' Payno from having an ulcer."

Harry snickers and nuzzles his head into Louis' hands, breaths eventually going deep and even. Louis cards his fingers through Harry's hair, drifting in and out to the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest.

The lads come back in when the sun's gone down, grass-stained and sweating and laughing loud enough Louis is shocked Harry doesn't stir. "All right, so 'm better at golf, we've all got our weaknesses," Niall's saying, shoving Zayn's shoulder. He tosses the football into the corner.

Zayn smirks. "That's barely even a sport, mate."

"Oi, take it back!" Niall shouts, and pulls him into a headlock he easily slips free of. Liam tuts at the both of them and ambles off towards the kitchen in time to miss Niall hipcheck Zayn into the wall. He darts after Liam, cackling.

"Hey, Zayn," Louis says—whispers, really. He stands, stretching his arms above his head. Zayn circles round the sofa to stand beside him. For a moment, they're both silent, gazing down at Harry.

"Looks proper sweet when he's sleeping, don't he," Zayn says. "Almost like he didn't steal all Liam's pants the other day and sharpie _Aiden_ across the crotch."

He looks down at Harry, curled in on himself in Louis' absence, his head tucked into the cushions of the couch. Louis' limbs feel heavy and foreign. All he wants is to lie back down, to wrap himself around Harry until Harry stirs.

Flicking his fringe out of his eyes, he forces a laugh. "That's how he lulls you into a false sense of security, innit," he says, and grins when Zayn snorts at him then nods toward the kitchen.

When Zayn goes, he follows, but he takes a moment to brush the hair from Harry's forehead on his way from the room.

\--

So it's a joke, is the thing, when it really gets going.

They've just come back in from their judge's house performance. Louis is woozy, thoughts spaced far, far apart by the pain meds they'd administered him at the A&E mixed generously with old-fashioned exhaustion. He can tell the other lads are nervous, don't know what to expect or if they'll get through to the live shows, particularly Harry, who's been quietly chewing at his thumb nail practically since they'd finished singing.

Louis would like to tell them all to buck up, take things as they come, that they'd smashed it after all. But he's distracted by the throbbing of his foot, and all he wants to do is dive face-first into bed and not come out till Sunday.

This poses a problem, however, because when he and Harry stumble into the room, there's no room in Louis' bed for Louis. "Bollocks," he says, surveying the disastrous mess of clothes he'd left when he'd upended his suitcase searching for his trunks. How does one person own so many pairs of pants, he wonders at himself. How many beanies does he truly _need_?

"What's—" Harry starts, toddling up behind. He cuts himself off as he sees the problem. After a moment or two of worrying at his lip, he says, "C'mon, Lou, come sleep in mine."

"Not sure we'll both fit, curly," Louis says. It's not that either of them is particularly big, though Haz _is_ a mess of elbows and knees at the best of times; it's just, the beds might be small even for his kid sisters.

"Oh, no, I can… If you want?" Harry nods at the bed, curls bobbing. Louis wants to poke them, so he does. He wants to suck another mark onto Harry's neck, but he doesn't.

He grins. "Gonna clean up my pants like a good wifey, Hazza?" he asks.

Harry guffaws. It's honking and obnoxious and delights Louis to his core. Harry claps a hand over his mouth, cheeks pinking up charmingly. Louis pokes one of those too, for good measure. Harry clears his throat and says with wide, sincere eyes, "That's a little offensive, Louis."

Louis doesn't believe him for a moment, the cheeky little bastard. He turns and flops onto Harry's bed. He wonders where the other boys have got off to, decides he doesn't care, and turns his face into Harry's pillow. "Quite right, Harry, you'd make a terrible wife."

Harry coughs, quiet. When Louis peeks at him, he sees he's frowning, biting at his lip. He should quit that, it's already all plump and— _anyway_. A low thrum of anxiety starts up in the pit of Louis' stomach.

"Harry?"

Harry reaches down for one of Louis' shirts. He folds it, careful and neat. It could go in a shop display, Louis's honestly a bit proud for him. Maybe _of_ him. After a tense beat of silence, Harry says, soft but firm, "I wouldn't."

He wouldn't— Oh, he thinks, and his lips quirk in a smile. Harry's always a touch stranger than he thinks to expect. "'course not, Haz, I was only joking. You're the _best_ wife. Should clean up after me always."

The stress of the day and the heavy blanket of pain meds are teaming up to drag him under now. He draws the sheets up around his shoulders, rubbing his cheek against a pillow that smells of Harry's shampoo.

He nods off to the sound of Harry tidying, smiling lazily to himself when Harry finally answers, simply, "Okay."

\--

It gets really odd with, of all things, tea. See, he's sat at the table with Zayn, ankles propped up on the slat of the chair opposite him. They're discussing the relative merits of Captain America vs lron Man—Louis has to mostly bullshit his way through this one, all he knows is Captain America doesn't have a movie yet—when Harry hooks his chin over Louis' shoulder and sets a mug on the table in front of him.

He smiles at it, pleased. "Thanks, love," he chirps, all the more charmed by how unexpected it is. He'd thought Harry was out with Aiden, which irritated him more than he'd care to admit. If anyone can steal Harry's attention from him, it's Aiden. Aiden's a talented bastard, and Louis is… well, he isn't quite of that calibre.

But here Harry is, grinning that wide, dopey grin at him.

Louis drops his ankles from the chair and nudges it outward with the side of his foot. Harry slides in across from him, the legs of the chair squealing over hardwood floors.

Zayn smiles at the both of them. Louis remembers being surprised by the honey sweetness of Zayn's smile when they'd first come together out of boot camp, but he sees now just how it suits Zayn, who's much softer about the edges than he'd have you believe. "No tea for me, Hazza?" Zayn asks.

Louis props his chin on his hand and looks over at Harry. "Yeah, curly boy, where's Zayn's tea? Quite rude, if you ask me."

Harry flushes, the long line of his throat working. "Sorry," he says.

To _Louis_.

Zayn blinks at Louis. Louis blinks at Harry. Harry pushes to his feet and leaves. Silence stretches on after he disappears from the room, and Louis isn't quite sure what to do with himself in the wake of… that. Then Zayn kicks his ankle under the table and says, "Right, but what about the Ultimates?" and he shakes his head and mentally chastises himself for making something of nothing.

They're still going at it when Harry bustles back in a few minutes later with another mug of tea. He hands it over to Zayn, raising his eyebrows. At Louis. Again. Maybe he isn't imagining things after all. Doesn't mean it makes a lick of sense to him, mind you, but Harry is something of an odd duck at the best of times. Maybe he's taking the piss somehow and Louis's just not getting it.

Zayn cocks his head. "l was only joking, H. You didn't have to make me tea. 's not like we don't know Louis is your favourite," he adds. He's joking. Louis is almost certain he's joking.

Harry is shifting uncomfortably on his feet, though, so he reaches over to slip a finger through one of his belt loops and reel him closer. Harry tucks against his side. "Now, don't tease, Zayn. Harry here is practising entertaining the company for once we've shacked up proper. Don't knock my boy's flawless manners."

"Thank you, Lou," says Harry, beaming. He ducks his head and makes puppy-dog eyes at Louis till Louis gives him a pat atop his curls. Zayn squints at them. Harry's smile turns decidedly wicked.

He sits with them till he presumably gets bored—Louis was bored ages ago, but he'll never admit it—and then leaves to tidy up the mugs. Louis ghosts a hand over his hip absently as he goes, saying, "Good lad, thanks a bunch."

Zayn pitches forward the moment Harry's cleared the room. There's a question or twelve in the way he's looking at Louis. "What?" Louis says. He's feeling oddly defensive of the whole display, an irritating turn of events given all of that was at least eighty percent Harry's doing.

"You sleeping with Hazza, Lou?"

Louis splutters. "No! What? Because of the— It was just tea, Zayn. Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter, would you, mate?"

"Right, tea," Zayn says. He's doing that squinty, incredulous thing with his eyes that only ends up being all smoldering and attractive because it's, you know, Zayn.

"Yes, tea, Zayn," he says. "Or haven't you heard of it?"

"Don't look like that when my mates bring me tea, Louis. You know it's, like." He waves a hand. "All right, don't you?"

"If Haz brings me tea?" Louis asks, feeling pigheaded in the face of Zayn's unwarranted acceptance, however gracious it may be. "Yes, I am quite aware, thank you."

Zayn looks at him softly. "If Harry is, like, your boy. The lads and I won't judge."

"That's very progressive of you," he sniffs. It comes out only a touch less sarcastically than he'd've liked. "But you can save it, Haz and I are just mates, and I've a girlfriend anyhow. You've met, remember?"

"Yeah? How's Hannah, then?" Zayn asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Erm." He's not even the slightest inkling. Perhaps not the best defense. When did they last speak? He read her last tweet, that definitely counts as interaction. "Well, she's doing well. Thank you for asking." It's likely true, at any rate. Hannah is rather the easygoing sort of girl.

Zayn stands and walks around the table, rapping his knuckles against the wood. "I'm only saying, Lou," he says on his way out the door.

"Yes, well, you're invited to keep your thoughts to your bloody self," Louis mutters. He drums his fingers atop the table, wishing forlornly for a cuppa to drink in angry punctuation to his thoughts.

Harry walks in with a steaming mug and a cheerful, dimpled smile, and Louis silently despairs.

\--

Over the weeks, Louis has become accustomed to the various ways in which the boys deal with their nerves. He comes to expect Niall to get loud, bouncing about like an overly cheerful pinball, whilst Zayn grows a touch or two quieter than normal, keeps to himself. Liam will analyse their performance until someone kicks him in the shin (Louis takes it upon himself to be that someone). Harry, he draws in on himself, goes silent and green about the gills till he's properly distracted (that's Louis' job, too).

But it's the night of the finals, and Harry isn't reacting quite how he'd expected. He's been all over Louis like a limpet all night, jiggling his knee when they sit and chewing at his knuckle, staring at the side of Louis' face till Louis's certain it'll catch on fire soon enough. He settles only when Louis pets at his shoulders, holds him down for a beat, and as soon as Louis lets him go, he's at it again.

It's twenty minutes to showtime. They're standing backstage, the five of them. Someone's fussing with Zayn's quiff. Niall's entertaining himself with a hacky sack he stole off Matt (hopelessly, Louis might add, he can't keep the thing off the ground), and Liam, of course, is rehearsing under his breath. Louis' gaze is flitting to and fro without his input, taking in the bustle of people around them.

Then someone grabs his hand, and he comes back to reality like they've just dumped a bucket of ice water of his head.

It's Harry. Of course it's Harry. He tangles their fingers together. Louis can't help but stare down at them. Harry's got big hands, long, lovely fingers. "Louis," he says quietly, as though anyone might overhear them in all this chaos.

"All right, Haz?" he says, and Harry swallows.

"Yeah, fine," he says faintly. "Just, I think. Even if we don't win, you know… You and me, we should, like. We should get a flat. Just you and me. I think it'd be good."

And here's where Louis should say no, he thinks. _No, I don't think that would be a good idea at all_. Because they've joked about this, made plans to elope to Paris or buy a cabin in the country, but that's all it was: jokes. They've only known each other a few months, now, and he's already given the kid a love bite. Something's not quite right here.

But he just—Harry looks so _nervous_. He's biting his lip, holding Louis' hand so hard his fingers are growing dumb. Louis can't imagine telling him no about anything at all, let alone this, let alone in this moment when he needs all the assurance Louis has to offer.

He gives Harry a smile, prodding at his cheek in the hopes a wild dimple might appear. "Don't you worry, curly, we're gonna smash it."

Harry's lips tip down instead, and that wasn't the reaction Louis was going for in the slightest. "Yes, but," he says, loosening his grip on Louis' hand and then giving it another squeeze. "If we don't, Lou."

Louis can't help it: he yanks Harry in for a hug, wrapping them together tight. One of Harry's legs slots between his, Harry's hair tickling his nose. "Don't fret, love," he says into his ear. "Wouldn't want anyone else making me tea."

"Yeah?" Harry says back, like he's unsure what Louis's playing at.

"Yeah," he says firmly. "But we're gonna win, Harry, okay?" He pats Harry's back, Harry's cheek pressing into his own. "We're gonna win this thing."

And in that moment, even with Matt and Rebecca's rehearsals ringing loud in his ears, he believes that it's true. Just for that moment, he imagines them surging together onstage, enveloping Dermot in a group hug for the ages, his hand low on Harry's back. He can see it so clearly, like Simon always says, and he wants it more than anything.

\--

They don't win. They don't place second.

They're out in the first half.

\--

The worst part of losing the X-Factor isn't the uncertainty of what's to come. It isn't how crushed Liam is, or the way Niall's face falls all night as if he's just remembered all over again that it's over. And the worst part isn't how hard it is, this time, to tease and tickle Harry out of his funk, or even putting on a brave face for the cameras.

No, the hardest bit of it all is seeing the playback of Harry's face when Dermot called their name. It's taking in the blankness of Harry's expression. Like he'd seen it coming. Like he hadn't really believed Louis that they'd win at all.

It's absolute ages before he can pry Harry away from the cameras and the interviewers and his family, but he does manage eventually. He knows Anne likes him, has ever since they met, really, but even she looks at Louis like he's being rude when he grabs Harry's wrist and drags him out of the crowd and into one of the dressing rooms.

"All right, Louis?" Harry asks once he's shut the door behind them. He sounds concerned, like he thinks Louis might be more upset than he's letting on, and he _is_ , he _wanted this_ , but that's. This isn't about that.

He pulls a breath. This is—it's silly, but he wants to— "We're gonna be a band," he says in a rush. "We're gonna be a band, and we're gonna have a flat, so don't worry. This isn't the end, okay? You're gonna make me tea and maybe iron my pants because you're ridiculous and I bet you do that."

Harry cocks his head. He steps in close. "Sometimes," he says slowly. "If they're especially wrinkled."

"Can't have wrinkled pants, can we," Louis says with a laugh, but that's not a _yes_ , and he knows objectively Harry asked first and probably won't ditch him come the first opportunity, but that doesn't keep his stomach from tying itself in knots.

Harry reaches out and thumbs at the hem of Louis' shirt. "Robin knows a complex, s'just been built and all. He said a friend of a friend told him about it, this guy he met at Tesco's when he—"

"Get to it, Haz," Louis says, cracking a grin.

"Just." Harry shrugs. "S'got four flats free last he checked, so I thought the other lads—and then you and me… If you want? You could have your own, too. I wouldn't mind."

It's overwhelming, the wave of relief that crashes down on him. He feels almost drowned in it. He pulls Harry in, tucks his head into Harry's neck. Harry rubs his back, lazy and slow. After a moment, he says, a question in his voice, "Lou?"

Louis pulls back to give him a cheeky smile. "And do my own washing, Hazza? Never. You and me, right?" Harry opens his mouth to reply, but just then someone bangs hard on the door. They both startle, and Louis untangles their limbs, backing off.

"Oi, you two!" someone calls. It sounds like Niall. "Quit blowing each other in there and come back out, would ya, we've got another interview to do!"

Louis takes Harry's hand again. When he looks over, Harry's smiling, a real wide grin like he hadn't just lost the competition of a lifetime. Louis' lips twitch in a reply all of their own.

"C'mon, then," he says, reaching for the knob. "Into the fray."

\--

They move in together on a Thursday in January, a month before the tour is set to start.

If Louis had been afraid Harry hadn't truly meant it when they'd bullshitted about finding a flat together, those fears are right and truly quelled by the way Harry leans his head on Louis' shoulder as they stand in the empty flat, surveying the fort of boxes in the far corner. "It's lovely," he says. Louis snakes an arm about his waist and snorts.

"It's an empty flat, Hazza, do try and contain yourself," he replies, but frankly, Harry's quite right. It is lovely, mostly because it's his and Harry's. "Right, unpacking," he says, dusting his hands.

He perches himself on a box, looking to Harry expectantly. Harry grins, shaking his curls in mock dismay, and wanders off to fetch the scissors.

They fall into an easy routine. When Louis wakes, Harry puts the kettle on and and makes him eggs on toast. If they're set to record the album (and sometimes he still can't believe that's something he gets to schedule into his day), then Harry grabs their jackets and they meet the boys and head to the studio. If not, they lounge about until Harry makes tea. In the evenings, they put the telly on and sit together until Harry goes off to make dinner, at which point Louis jumps up on the counter and pretends to direct.

It's all going swimmingly until the day, two weeks in, that Louis takes a call from his mum.

Harry's made fajitas for dinner. They eat them together in front of the telly, a truly shit reality programme (the only kind worth watching, really) keeping them entertained. When Louis' mobile trills, he excuses himself to his room, sparing a backwards glance over his shoulder to see Harry stand to tidy up the dishes.

It's very domestic, really, satisfying in a way Louis thinks he couldn't quite verbalise if he wanted to. Harry hates to see their things strewn about, keeps the sink free and the dishes sparkling. Louis very much doubts any of his mates from school have such neat bachelor flats. Then again, precisely none of them have a Harry.

"Hi, Mum," he says, balancing the mobile on his shoulder as he jumps onto his bed. It's comfy and plush. Harry had talked him into a mountain of throw pillows. He arranges them about himself, feeling like the one true king of the bed.

"Lou!" says his mum, loud enough he winces, and for the next fifteen minutes straight she chatters on about his sisters and a new busybody neighbour who's been delivering passive-aggressive casseroles on a near daily basis. Louis peppers in a, "Mmhm," and an indignant squawk on her behalf here and there and largely tunes out until there's a pause that stretches long enough he keys in he must have missed a question.

"Sorry, what?"

"I _said_ ," she says, "have you been pulling your weight with poor Harry? I'm sure your room is a tip, as always—"

"I never," says Louis, pouting.

"—but you've been keeping the kitchen clean and the likes, haven't you? I know he dotes on you, Louis, but don't take advantage."

He flips his fringe out of his eyes and says, "I clean. Of course I clean. _Obviously_ I clean. I am an adult." It's a lie. He doesn't clean. To be completely fair, Harry's almost always cleaned everything before he notices anything is awry.

"Yes," she says, slow and pointed in a way that turns the _yes_ into an _I'm sure_ , "you are an adult. Harry is not your mum, boo. I hope you don't forget."

Louis scowls to himself and responds with something appropriately sarcastic, mostly on autopilot. After a few more rounds of "and here's what's wrong with Lottie's new boyfriend," he makes an excuse to end the call.

But the conversation's got him thinking. And if there's anything he hates, it's being nudged into contemplation, but.

Harry's not his mum. Of course, _thank fuck_ , Harry is not his mum. He feels guilty enough about the way he'd been eying Harry's hipbones when he'd stretched his gangly limbs over the couch earlier just that night. It doesn't feel like a mum cleaning up after him when Harry does it, either, more like—well, like a wife, maybe, though that sounds right sexist. It's just, Harry seems so pleased to do it, and Louis's pleased that Harry's pleased, and it all goes like clockwork.

Only maybe, _maybe_ , Harry isn't so pleased. Now that he thinks of it, in all likelihood, Harry's not pleased at all.

"I'm a twat," he mutters to himself, punching one of his throw pillows and feeling guilty at once because the pillows make him think of Harry, and it's not Harry's fault Louis is a twat. Who _would_ be pleased to clean up after his grown flatmate? Harry probably resents him. Harry probably can't wait to have a responsible, adult-type flatmate who does the washing up and doesn't only pretend to know where they keep the hoover.

Louis doesn't want Harry to want another flatmate. Louis wants Harry to want _him_ , preferably forever and more than he wants anyone else. He's not quite certain how or when that happened, but it is unequivocally true.

"Right," he says, burying his face in a cheerful orange pillow. "Cleaning. Tomorrow."

 _Swell_ , he thinks bitterly, and promptly falls asleep.

\--

Louis plans to kick off his new life as the best flatmate a Harry could want the next morning by making them tea and toast. He fumbles his glasses onto his face with one hand and sleepwalks to the door, squinting through lidded eyes. He heads downstairs to put the kettle on, only to have it all go to hell immediately.

Harry's standing at the counter, clad in a pair of loose boxers. There are two mugs of tea before him, tendrils of steam dancing lazily from them. They look heavenly. Louis narrows his eyes at them, trying his level best not to curse.

"Right, you're awake," he says.

"Right, I'm awake," Harry parrots, a slow, curious lilt to his voice. "Because it's eleven, Lou."

"Is it really?" He probably should've set an alarm, now that he thinks of it. Harry isn't as fond of a lie-in as Louis.

"Tea?" Harry nudges a mug over. Louis goes over to take it, glaring down at it forlornly.

Harry's lips droop into a frown. "Er, if you don't want— I could... Coffee?"

Louis glowers. "Coffee? Honestly, Haz." That's just distasteful.

"Okaaay," Harry says. The word stretches for miles. He sips at his own tea, brow furrowed darkly. Then he straightens, expression smoothing over as if he's rallied himself. Honestly, sometimes Louis has no idea what the kid is thinking. "Go on and sit, I'm making eggy bread."

Louis clears his throat. "Actually," he says through gritted teeth because _of course_ Harry would choose today of all days to make that, "I thought I'd make myself toast." It's physically painful to say when he can see now, over Harry's shoulder, all the ingredients for eggy bread ready and raring to go.

Harry's mouth gapes open, then closes, bottom lip jutting out. Is Louis cooking for himself truly that shocking? He is a proper failure. "But you love eggy bread," says Harry. "You said so just yesterday."

It's true. He does. He had. He really, really wants it. Being an adult is already utter shit. "Be that as it may," he says, "today I'm feeling like toast."

He sets about making it as Harry, in sullen silence, preps things for his own breakfast. Louis has to use the brown toast because Haz is using the white, so that's an immediate disappointment. He pops it in the toaster and twists the dial higher, ignoring Harry when he mutters, "You'll burn it, Lou," because he is the elder and more experienced flatmate and can make bloody toast, _thank you_.

The toast comes out charred about the edges. He sighs and pokes at it, burning his fingers just to get it onto the plate, and then slumps off to the table.

Eating burnt toast to the soundtrack of Harry cooking a far superior breakfast is not the premiere experience of Louis' life thus far. In fact, though he tries to power through it, he can't bring himself to finish the toast at all. It's bitter and flakes apart on his tongue. He throws it back on the plate, where is lies pitifully, and pouts into his tea till Harry walks over with a heaping plate of eggy bread and sets it down between them.

"That looks good," he says, because he is _polite_ , and also because it's true: each slice is a lovely golden brown and smells delicious. Louis saw the lemon on the counter, too, he knows Haz made it right.

"Yeah," Harry says. "I… called my mum for the recipe. Last night, I mean. I thought it'd... I mean, do you—" He picks up his fork, sets it back down, and looks at Louis. His eyebrows draw together. "Are you sick, Lou? Do you need something? I'm not sure we have anything for nausea, but we've got paracetamol in the bathroom cupboard. I could fetch it for you."

"Bloody hell, Harry, I'm not—" One skipped breakfast and the lad thinks he's dying. This won't do. He shoves his plate forward, deciding to hell with it all. "All right, fine, load me up."

Harry beams at him, gives him a thumbs up, and uses his fork to push four slices over to Louis' plate.

Louis eats all four under Harry's intent gaze and decides being an adult can wait till tomorrow.

\--

The next morning, he's prepared. He sets his alarm for nine and drags himself to the kitchen. "All right, then, tea," he mutters, scrubbing at his eyes and looking around.

He's not sure where Harry's hidden the mugs.

He goes on a search, finally locating them in, of course, the last cupboard he'd thought to look. "Get it together, Tommo," he says to himself, and puts the kettle on.

Harry comes in once the tea is steeping. He's shirtless, his trackies sitting low on his hips. Louis flattens his hair with both hands, abruptly aware he's done nothing with it this morning and almost certainly looks like a startled cockatiel.

"Oh, you're up," Harry says. His voice is husky with sleep still. Louis clears his throat and nods, wondering if he can manage to give the impression he's been up for ages.

Harry walks past on the way to the sink and flicks at the collar of his shirt. When Louis looks down, he sees the tag is sticking out, which means he's put it on backwards and inside out.

So. Probably not, then.

It's not until Harry reaches for the cupboard over the sink that Louis realises what he's doing. "Harry," he says, shifting awkwardly on his feet, and Harry waves a hand at him.

"Just a second, Lou, I'm just gonna—"

"No, Harry, look." He tugs at Harry's shirt, and Harry turns into him, their arms brushing. "You don't have to, I've already done it."

A second or two pass where it seems like Harry doesn't follow. Then his eyes light on the tea. His face clouds over. "Oh." He sounds—well, he certainly sounds a lot less happy to be getting tea than Louis normally is. It's not particularly gratifying. _But_ , he tells himself, that's not why he did it. "Thank you," says Harry. He takes both mugs and carries them round the counter to the table, leaving Louis to trail after.

They sit across from one another, silently sipping from their mugs. It is, oddly, the most uncomfortable Louis has ever felt around Harry, and that includes the time he _held Harry down and sucked on his neck_.

"So," Harry says eventually. "Was it not good yesterday?"

"Was what not good," says Louis, blinking.

"The tea." He nods at his mug. "Did I… did I make it wrong or something? You've always liked it before."

And that's just—jesus, he's not incompetent or summat, what the _hell_. "I can make my own bloody tea, Harry," he says, shoving the nail of his index finger between his teeth and tearing at it in frustration.

Harry actually leans back in his seat, swallowing hard like he's taken aback. Right, that may have been a touch harsh. "Yeah, 'course. Of course you can, Lou. I wasn't saying you can't."

" _Right,_ " Louis says, because harsh or not, he can't very well take it back now. He takes a gulp of tea without blowing on it first, and _shite_ , isn't that just scalding fucking hot. Brilliant.

"Um." Scooting his chair back, Harry stands. "Actually, I'm just gonna—" He points a thumb in the direction of his room. "I promised Mum we'd skype."

"Uh, all right," Louis says. It isn't all right. They always do breakfast together.

Harry leaves without taking his tea. Louis pours both mugs down the drain, cursing them for all his ridiculous, ridiculous problems. It splashes back and stains his shirt—which he now sees is _still inside-out and backwards_ , of course he'd sat there like that the whole time, _obviously_.

And so, he decides, it's time to try his hand at doing laundry.

\--

Laundry goes passably well. That is, he gets it in the washer and then plays FIFA all afternoon until Harry emerges from his room, well after what Louis deems a reasonable skyping period has passed. Harry walks through the living room without saying anything to him, then pops back in a few minutes later.

"Louis, did you… was that your laundry in the washer?" he asks.

"Oh, shite," Louis says, pausing the game. "Forgot about that, let me just pop it in the dryer."

"Already done," says Harry. Louis can't parse his tone. It's the oddest mixture of put-out and triumphant. He comes around and plops down next to Louis on the sofa, depositing both feet in Louis' lap and knocking the controller out of place.

"Oh." Louis sighs. Well, at least he'd got step one down. "Thanks, Haz." He grips Harry's feet thoughtlessly, stroking the sole of his left. Harry squirms, his knee coming dangerously close to Louis' chin. Louis grabs his calf to keep him in place.

"So what do you want for supper?" Harry asks. "I was thinking mini pizzas. We've got all the stuff, I picked it up yesterday."

"Actually." He lets go of Harry's feet and scratches at his neck. He rolls his eyes when Harry takes the opportunity to dig his toes into his stomach. "I was thinking takeaway, maybe? Could do with some Chinese."

Harry's feet fly off his lap, and he's sitting upright between one blink and the next, green eyes narrowed at Louis. "No," he says.

What the f— "No?" Louis repeats, because. What?

"No, Louis," says Harry tightly. He leans forward, grabs Louis' mobile from the coffee table, looks Louis straight in the eye, and shoves the mobile down the front of his trousers.

"What in the—" His hand goes out toward Harry's lap on instinct. He snatches it back in the nick of time, because just. No. "Harry, what the hell, mate?"

"We're having mini pizzas," Harry says. There's a lot of eye contact going on. It sounds like a challenge. Louis shakes his head, entirely lost.

"Fine," he says slowly.

" _Fine_ ," Harry mocks, settling back on the sofa in what seems to be an almighty strop. Louis' mobile is still firmly nestled right in there with his junk. Louis decides it's best to leave it be.

They have mini pizzas that night. Harry stares him down the whole time they eat, then brings out a tray of biscuits for pudding.

\--

It isn't till the Friday before they're set to leave for the X-Factor tour that Louis wonders if Harry might be sabotaging him.

See, it's like this: He comes down at nine the following morning and Harry's already up, tea on the table with two plates of eggs. And that's fine, obviously, Louis can't be expected to make tea _every_ morning. So he's down at half eight the next day and that goes—well, not exactly swimmingly, because apparently in Harry's universe there are _morning mugs_ and _afternoon mugs_ , and he decides he doesn't want any tea after all when Louis gets that one wrong.

Louis drinks both their teas whilst contemplating if Harry would voice any particular objection to him breaking an afternoon mug into pieces and stabbing himself with it if it's only eleven am.

The day after _that_ he hears Harry stomping down the hall at quarter to eight and rolls out of bed with a curse, and come Wednesday, they're both sitting bleary-eyed at the table by six-fifteen.

"Thanks for the tea, Louis," Harry says through gritted teeth. It bears a remarkable resemblance, somehow, to a _fuck you_. They're both miserable at the studio that day, and he knows absolutely everyone, from the techs straight down to oblivious Liam, can tell something's off.

He's decided once and for all to cede dinner to Harry, because although he _had_ made them that brilliant parma ham dish that once before they'd moved in together, he's not confident in his ability to recreate it without Harry hawking over his shoulder. He's tried doing the washing up after dinner to make up for it, but every time he goes into the kitchen the sponge has gone missing again. He finds it twice, once behind the breadbox and once under a drying pot, and then never again. So he thinks, just as well, he'll just put the dishes away, but after the first time he tries _that_ he'd swear the cabinets have been rearranged.

He sends a text to Zayn that says _hazza goin senile !! pls send help_ , and retreats to his room to boggle privately at the mess his life's become.

But he doesn't clue in, once and for all, until that Friday when he goes to take the laundry from the washer and discovers that he has unwittingly bleached every pair of Harry's trousers.

"Fucking _shite_ ," he says, shoving the clothes back in and grabbing the detergent from the shelf. _BLEACH_ , it says starkly. He stares at it in betrayal. And then, a thought niggling at the back of his mind, it dawns on him that something here is not quite right.

Because, see, Louis remembers buying detergent. He remembers doing the shopping with Harry and picking up the baby blue bottle with the cartoon bear on it when Harry held it up and went, exaggeratedly, "Awww." This bottle is remarkably similar in both shape and color, sat in precisely the same spot alone on the shelf, and moreover, Louis remembers vividly that last time he'd looked, that detergent had been nearly full.

He slams the bleach back on the shelf, whirls around, and storms off to the kitchen.

Harry's sat on the counter, barefoot and eating a banana. Louis strides up to him, hands on his hips. "Hey, Lou," he says. He takes a slow, serene bite of his banana.

Louis wants to strangle him. It's always bloody bananas with this one, why can't he ever eat a nice round, non-phallic fruit like a _normal_ bloke?

"Harry," he says. "Where is the detergent?"

Harry shrugs, kicking his heels against the cupboard door. "Spilt it."

"What?" he says. "You—where?"

Harry shrugs again, silent. He lifts his banana for another bite whilst still holding Louis' gaze, and almost even manages not to get it on his face.

"So you spilt it," he says flatly. "And then you replaced it. With bleach."

"Thought you'd notice. What with you being so, like, good with chores lately and all," says Harry.

Louis takes a deep, calming breath, lets it out again slowly. He steps forward. He reaches out. He pushes the rest of the banana right into Harry's face, grips the back of Harry's head by his hair, and smears the banana over every inch he can get at.

The peel drops to the floor when he steps back. Harry's gaping at him, his cheeks and lips coated in white. It's even on his eyelashes.

Louis's so angry that barely even bothers him at _all_.

"Hope you like all of your trousers bleached," he says, wiping his hands on his trackies. He turns to go, having made the decision that, seeing as his roommate is utterly mad and apparently out to get him, he's earned himself an hour of FIFA with Zayn, a _normal_ person.

"Wait, Lou," he hears Harry call after him. "You did my laundry? That's— thank you, that was very nice of you!"

"I hope you choke on a banana!" Louis yells back. He slams the door on the way out of the flat.

\--

Louis can't decide if the homemade lasagna on the table when he comes back is a sign that Harry is feeling guilty over the laundry incident (after all, Harry knows it's one of his favourite meals) or that Harry is angrier with him than ever (because Harry is a passive-aggressive bastard and Louis doesn't understand anything he does at all ever, but making a lasagna in a fit of pique is something he would do). All he can say for certain is that a) everything was much simpler before he became a responsible adult and b) he is famished.

He takes his place and tucks in. It's a few minutes before Harry comes out to join him. He's got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, a hangdog expression on his face.

"Thanks for supper," Louis says. If it comes out garbled around the fork in his mouth then, well, he's still peeved with Harry so he's not sure he deserves proper enunciation anyway.

Harry shuffles to the table and sits down. He jiggles his knee.

Louis cocks an eyebrow at him. There're loads of things he likes doing with an audience, but he can't rightly say eating is one of them. "All right?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry says, "I mean, no. I mean—" He musses his hair and sighs, sounding frustrated. "Just, like. I'm really sorry, okay? I didn't know you were doing my laundry."

Louis rolls his eyes heavenward. "Oh, so it would've been just dandy if you'd ruined _my_ laundry with that stunt, then?"

"No!" says Harry at once. "I didn't mean that, honestly, Lou. I just thought…"

He goes for another bite of lasagna without looking. His fork clangs against ceramic. He prompts, "You thought?"

"I just." Harry's cheeks are pink and he's thumbing at the table, not looking Louis in the eye any longer. "I'm just, like, I'm really confused, Louis."

 _He's_ confused, he says. Louis wants to scoff at him, but he looks pitiful enough that it would be cruel. That doesn't mean he's not scandalised at the notion that _Harry_ doesn't know what's going on in this situation. "Well, that makes the both of us," he says.

"Let me make it up to you," Harry says, low and serious.

Louis shrugs. "They were your trousers, mate, not mine. No harm done, I suppose."

"But that's not the point!" Harry says, the words fairly bursting out of him. His eyes are bright. "Can you just…"

He's a million steps behind in every conversation lately, it's maddening. "Can I _what_?"

"I don't _know_ , okay? Just. Tell me what to do." Harry licks his lips. "Please."

See, he and Harry, they haven't known one another that long, not in the grand scheme of things. Maybe if they'd been friends for years and this wasn't their first real tiff over something more serious than who the best member of Take That is, Louis would more prepared and therefore less appalled at the part of himself that responds to Harry staring at his mouth and saying please by popping a semi.

But they haven't, and he does, and it makes him want to tear his hair out except he can't do that because he's in a boyband and good hair is a commodity for him now.

He scoots his chair closer to the table, subtly adjusting himself.

"I don't know what you want from me, Haz," he says finally. "Do you want me to tell you to carry me around on your back the rest of the day? Only speak in rhyme the next time you call your mum? Tell you you can't wank? What is it?"

And he's _joking_ , he's always bloody joking, but Harry goes still.

"What?" he says. Harry's gone a splotchy sort of red all over, even his neck. It's a bit gorgeous, really. And Louis knows he should take it back, because he and Harry have always been odd, always, but this is one step further.

But he doesn't need to have been friends with Harry for years to know that Harry's looking at him like he's done something right for the first time in weeks, and he'd be an idiot not to know what it is.

He's not sure what game they're playing here, but in this moment, he thinks he might be winning.

"All right," he says. He pushes his plate back. "It's decided, then. If you want to make it up to me, and I gather that you do, you can't jerk it till the next time I do laundry. Successfully and without your shenanigans, obviously."

Harry's Adam's apple bobs. "But the tour starts Monday and I already—I did your laundry whilst you were at Zayn's," he tells Louis, though there's no real protest to it. He sounds spacey, almost, dazed. Louis raises his eyebrows in challenge.

"Can't do it, then, Harry? Thought you wanted to make it up to me."

"I can," says Harry fiercely. He reaches out and grabs Louis' wrist. Louis slips his hand up to give Harry's a squeeze.

"There's a good lad," he says, and he can almost forget how mad the day has been when Harry beams at him and stands to clear up his dishes.

\--

He gives himself a break from becoming a better flatmate in the weekend before the tour, as he and Haz seem to have reached a tentative state of peace he'd prefer not to disturb. Louis doesn't know what it says about them that it took him ordering Harry not to beat off in order for them to get there, but perhaps such things are best left unexamined.

He has to admit, as well, that there is something gratifying about coming down to tea in the morning, about knowing Harry thought of him when he woke, because he knows Harry could happily go till noon on nothing but water. So the tea is for Louis, because of Louis, like it's for Louis when he makes them spiral pasta even though it's his least favourite because he knows Louis loves it.

It makes Louis feel—important, maybe, or just content with his place of importance in Harry's life. But more than that, he loves how languid and tactile and happy Harry is over the next two days, always laying his head in Louis' lap when they sit together on the sofa or brushing a hand over Louis' back when he walks past. He stays up with Louis longer when they watch telly in the evenings, too. That this means he must have been jerking off when he went off to his room before makes Louis hot, makes him squirm, but he tries to put that aside because they're happy now, and he'd missed this ease.

So it's good, even if Louis knows Harry can't want it like this forever, will resent Louis for taking advantage. For now, Louis ruffles his hair and says, "Yes, dear," when Harry tips his head back in Louis' lap and asks, "Tea?" For now, he lets Harry clear his plate after dinner and join him when he's done the washing up, pats Harry's cheek whilst he smiles at Louis', "What a good wife you are, darling."

And it's weird how normal it feels, but then, he's thought that a lot since he met Harry.

The cab picks them up for the start of the tour early Monday morning. The five of them pack in sleepily and ride together through London.

\--

It would not be an unfair assessment of the situation to say Louis goes mad with power in the days that follow.

Everything is fine for about, well, ten minutes or so after they leave the flat. Louis has seen the boys plenty since the X-Factor final, what with living so close and recording a bloody album together, but there hadn't been this buzz of energy about it he'd missed from knowing they're set to perform again, to perform _live_. So he claps Zayn on the shoulder, gives Niall a fist bump, and talks shop with Liam as the cab moves through the city, his arm snug about Harry's shoulders.

It's about the time that Liam says, "So in the first verse of Forever Young," though, that Harry bursts into laughter over something Niall's said. Louis snaps his mouth shut and looks at him. He's leaning forward, as Niall and Zayn opted to sit in the middle row between the cabbie and Louis, Liam, and Harry (Zayn had fallen asleep immediately, of course).

Louis' immediate reaction is to tug him backwards by a belt loop, hold out his hand and say, "Haz, give me your sweatshirt."

The cabbie hasn't set the heat quite high enough to combat the February chill. Goosebumps pepper Harry's arms the moment he strips off to his t-shirt and hands his sweatshirt over to Louis.

Louis, who is snug in his beanie and jumper and would quite like to eat his own tongue at this point, stares down at the sweatshirt for a moment, then bundles it up and shoves it behind his head as a pillow. When he glances around he's met with expressions of bewilderment from both Niall and Liam. Zayn, who must have woken up at some point whilst Louis was distracted by his own stupidity, is staring at him coolly.

Harry doesn't look bothered, at least, though when the silence drags on and Louis says, "What, I'm curing Harry of his preppy ways," he does drawl out a long, "Heeey."

"That's a bit rich coming from you," says Liam to Louis' striped jumper.

"Excuse you." He flips his fringe. "I'm very stylish."

"Actually, I didn't want to say anything, but sometimes you look like a teen celebrity girl from the nineties, mate," says Niall, and Louis leans over to swat him.

"Louis would have made a lovely Spice Girl," Harry pipes up. He props his head on Louis' shoulder. Louis rubs his arm, trying to warm his skin.

He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue at the knowing look Zayn sends his way, then asks the cabbie to turn up the heating.

The lobby of the hotel is full to the brim with contestants when they arrive. Zayn veers off at once to talk to Cher, Liam heads for the check-in counter, and Niall strikes up a conversation with Paije, which leaves Louis and Harry—mostly Harry—to cart their luggage to the lift. Matt comes over to stand with them, back in his cap and his plaid button-down like he'd never won the X-Factor at all. He ruffles Harry's hair and says, "Ah, the terrible two, back again."

"I am a gift," Louis says, watching the way Harry ducks his head under Matt's gaze.

"Have you gotten taller, then," Matt says to Harry.

Harry grins. "Thought I might as well." He shrugs, bumping his shoulder against Matt's. Louis' fingers clench around Harry's sweatshirt in his hands. He bends down to unzip his own suitcase and stuff it in, just to occupy himself. "Lou needs someone to, like, fetch things from the high shelves for him."

Matt cants his head, the brim of his cap shading his eyes. "You two are, what, living together?" he asks. He wags a finger over the space between them. "Gotta be honest, I was never sure if that was a joke or not."

Harry turns to Louis with wide eyes. "Lou," he says in a stage whisper, "did we forget to invite Matt to the wedding?"

Louis cackles.

They pack into the lift once Liam has retrieved their room keys, all five boys, Mary, and Matt. It's a tight squeeze. Harry ends up pushed against the wall, Louis' back against his front. Louis wriggles his hips when Harry coughs and tightens his grip on Louis' arm.

"Getting a bit hot in here, innit," he says cheerfully to the lift at large, then cranes his head back to look at Harry and add, "What about you, Hazza, you getting hot?"

Harry trips over Niall's suitcase in his rush out of the lift.

After Harry rights himself, they file out into the corridor. Harry's rubbing his hands on his jeans, clearly still flustered. Louis is smug for exactly the amount of time it takes Harry to skip ahead with both their suitcases to talk to Mary, who's got a room on the same floor, and then he glares down at his Vans. Niall notices right away he's out of sorts, throwing his free arm around Louis and cooing, "Aw, Lou, I'll be your new BFF!"

"You're just debasing yourself by offering, Horan," says Louis haughtily, and then he takes off in a running leap and jumps on Harry's back, looping his arms around Harry's neck.

Harry lets out a little _oomph_ , his knees buckling under Louis' weight. "Oi, watch it, you hooligans!" Mary yelps, and Louis glances down to see that one the suitcases took a dive straight into the back of her shins, the other lying pitifully by Harry's feet. Harry goes cross-eyed trying to look at him, grinning like he's biting back a giggle.

"Hi, Lou," he says, and Louis squeezes his thighs against him.

"Onward, Harold my valiant steed! To our rooms!"

Harry takes off in a gallop, flying down the corridor. It's a bumpy ride, shockingly so, and they'll probably be booted from the hotel when the other guests call down to complain about a stampede. He's off-balance, gripping Harry tightly with his legs and half afraid he'll tumble off, brain himself, slip into a coma, and miss the whole of the tour; but it's the most fun he's had in ages. He plants his hands on either side of Harry's face and swivels Harry's head to steer him round the corner. "Hyah!" he says, flicking an imaginary whip. Harry throws his head back, nearly whacking Louis in the face, and neighs. His shoulders are shaking, back vibrating with laughter under Louis, and neither of them pays Liam any mind when he shouts after them, "But you don't even know where you're going!"

"I think it's this one," Harry says finally, panting out the words. Louis pats his head and hops off. Harry fishes about in his pocket until he comes up with a keycard Liam must have given him when Louis wasn't paying attention. "Li says it'll be him, Zayn, and Niall this time round, then us and Ni at the next hotel."

"Who died and made Payno the boss?" Louis asks, cocking a brow and leaning against the wall as Harry unlocks the door. Harry holds it open for him, then turns as if to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Gonna go and fetch the bags," Harry says, facing him. Louis tries not to notice how flushed he is from the run, nor the way the sleeves of his t-shirt have rucked up about his upper arms. "Couldn't carry them _and_ you, even if you are all tiny and everything."

"Oi," he protests, affronted. That extra inch Harry gained over the winter has really gone to his big fat head, he thinks.

He's managed to check all the drawers for hidden treasures (a gum wrapper and a Bible, in a disappointing turnout) by the time Harry returns, wheeling both suitcases behind him. He sets Louis' in front of one bed and his own in front of the other, then throws himself atop the covers and shuts his eyes."Gonna nap," he mumbles, curling up on his side.

"G'night, love," Louis says quietly. He wants to straighten Harry out again, to climb on top of him, pin his wrists to the bed, and suck on his neck till he can't hold still and couldn't sleep if he tried.

He takes the fact that he resists that urge this time round as personal growth.

\--

He can only admit to himself he was nervous they wouldn't work as a group outside of the competition, that without the threat of elimination they somehow wouldn't gel quite right, after the five of them take to the stage that first night. He's loved recording the album with them, but it's rather more bureaucratic than performing, doesn't give him the same rush. He thinks, maybe, he'd been afraid it was just him, that he wasn't cut out for this after all like he's always secretly feared.

But they smash it. They smash it, and the crowd loves them, and he spends the rest of the evening with his arms around Harry, drinking in the noise and the cheer and the future he can see bright before him, with Harry and the boys by his side.

\--

Being onstage with the lads is an incomparable high, an electric buzz of nerves and excitement that shoots through his bones and makes him feel ten feet tall, held up by the cheers of a crowd he can imagine one day coming just for them.

Smoking weed with Zayn in the carpark behind the hotel, on the other hand…

"Where'd you even get this on the road?" he says, curiously examining the spliff he's pinching between his thumb and index finger. He passes it to Zayn, who takes a hit and lets the smoke roll lazily from his lips.

"I know people," Zayn says, mysterious in a way that suggests he's forgotten Louis was present the time at boot camp he hid from choreography lessons because he was afraid he was crap at it. Louis narrows his eyes.

"It must be Matt or Aiden. No, wait, is it Cher? Oh god, don't tell me you get shit off Wagner, I don't know if I could take it. C'mon, Zayn, who's your connection?"

"Your mum," says Zayn, and holds the spliff out to him.

Louis couldn't say how Harry finds them, though for a spacey, hazy moment, he thinks he might have texted him. One second, it's Louis and Zayn, cast pink in the light of the sun setting behind the buildings in the distance, and the next Harry is by his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and propping his chin on Louis' shoulder.

"Hey, Hazza," he says, smiling. He laughs when Harry tickles his curls deliberately against Louis' cheek. Louis stares down at the spliff in his tingling hand, thinks about offering it to Harry, decides that's a terrible idea and he should definitely not do that, and then does it anyway. "You want a hit, then?"

"Uh-uh, thanks," Harry says, just as he had when Zayn had pulled out his pipe at the bungalow, complaining about not having smoked the whole of boot camp. Harry had shrugged and said, "Asthma," but Louis has the feeling perhaps he was just nervous, and that's okay, too. There are times he forgets Harry is younger than the rest of them.

Like now, for example, when he can feel _something_ poking him in the back, and he's thinking that's not a mic in Harry's trousers. It's going on two weeks since Harry's jerked off, if he listened, and Louis knows that he has.

He has the strangest urge to brag about it to Zayn, to tousle Harry's hair and say, "Look how good he's been." He thinks, even, that Harry might like that.

He's still fairly certain it's not socially acceptable and that Zayn would not appreciate it.

He snakes a hand back and wriggles it into Harry's pocket instead. Harry jumps, going rigid, and Louis is ten long, marijuana-aided seconds from throwing himself into the skip to their left before Harry melts into him, squeezing his arms tight about Louis' middle.

Right. That's all right, then. He tries to breathe and is relatively successful.

He doesn't realise that Harry and Zayn have been carrying on a conversation over his head until the drone of their voices comes to a halt. He thinks he's been asked a question. "What?" he croaks. Harry is suddenly tense again behind him. It's dark now, and he squints, trying to make out Zayn a few feet in front of him. He can smell the cigarette Zayn's lit, see the glow of the cherry by his side.

Zayn says, "I asked how Hannah was."

"I've no idea," Louis replies before he thinks it over, blinking.

He hasn't even thought about Hannah, lovely sweet Hannah, in ages, and when he thinks of her now, she seems so remote, like a remnant of a bygone period of his life, a happy memory but a memory nonetheless.

That could be the weed talking, though.

He jumps when Harry asks, his lips brushing the shell of Louis' ear, "Did you two... break up?"

"Dunno," he says, shrugging just enough so as not to dislodge Harry. "We haven't spoken."

"Don't you wanna, like, tell her what's been going on in your life?" Harry sounds hesitant. His fingers are tensing and relaxing on Louis' stomach. Louis can picture the way he might be worrying his lip. "Since you're so far away, and all?"

 _Do I tell her I told you not to wank_ , he thinks, unbidden, and then he tears himself away from Harry, his heart galloping wildly in his chest.

Harry looks hurt, shaking out his fringe and biting his lip just like Louis imagined. Louis shuts his eyes and shakes his head at himself.

"All right, Louis?" Zayn asks, appearing by his side. He holds out his cigarette. Louis steals a drag and gives it back, ignoring the way Harry wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah, no, fine," he says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, pulls them back out, and takes a step toward the back entrance. "I think you're right, really. I'm a shit boyfriend. I should call her."

"Yeah, see you," Zayn says with a nod, and Harry mumbles, "Okay," at the asphalt. Louis pulls his mobile from his back pocket on his way back into the building, scrolling through the contacts till he finds Hannah's name.

An hour later, Louis is sober, single, and still waiting on Harry to come back to the room.

\--

The next day, he runs out of clean pants.

It isn't like he's been putting off doing laundry, really. It's just, well. It's _fascinating_ seeing Harry, calm Harry, start to fray about the edges with the strain of it. And fray he does. He's getting hard at inopportune moments, like chatting with the Belle Amie girls or in rehearsals, looking covertly to Louis when it happens like he wants a reaction but is afraid to ask. But overall, he's taking it much better than Louis ever could, to the point where if he didn't know Harry better, he'd think he was cheating.

He does know better, though, and he wishes he could tell Harry that but doesn't quite know how.

Harry's agitated as it is today, however, has been in a mood ever since Niall (it's their turn to share with him at this hotel, much to Louis' dismay, as that means he and Haz have to share a bed and that's increasingly awkward for him lately) woke them up in the morning with a peppy, "It's about that time, lads!" Harry had come back in late and hadn't slept much, kept waking Louis by muttering in his sleep. There's a storm cloud hovering above him now, and it only gets worse when they go down to the lobby with the rest of the lads for breakfast.

He's been making Louis' morning tea and grabbing him a plate of food from the breakfast bar most days, bringing it over to the table with his own, but Louis likes to keep up pretenses by taking a step towards the bar before Harry says he'll get it. Today, Harry doesn't say anything at all, just stops over to the table, pulls out a chair, stomps back to Louis, and leads him to it with a hand on the small of his back.

Louis stares at him, open-mouthed. Harry raises his eyebrows and nods at the chair.

Louis sits.

This is it, he thinks. Harry's at the end of his rope, and Louis needs to set him free. He's not angry at Harry any more, not at all, and Harry _has_ been good. He deserves to relax, so Louis has to let him.

Also, he is in desperate need of pants.

He, Harry, and Liam sit together by the large bay window (Niall is sitting with Paije, whilst Zayn had just flipped them off and shoved his face into his pillow). As the three of them dig into the rubbery eggs and cooled toast, he asks Liam, "Hey, d'you know where the laundry room is? Mary said they had one here."

Harry's head snaps up from where he's been glaring daggers at his tea. He gapes at Louis, throat working as he swallows. Louis makes eye contact with him, regrets it, and looks away.

"—down that corridor, you know the one," Liam's saying when he tunes in, having forgotten that, as he'd asked a question, he should probably listen to the answer. Liam smiles at him, soft, and then looks at Harry. "Harry, mate, would you get me some more tea when you go back up? I can never find the bags on that shelf."

Harry straightens, squaring his shoulders. He shoves his plate back and stands, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Why don't you ask Louis," he says, his voice dark. Louis startles at his own name, spilling tea down his front. "Since he's feeling so productive lately, and all." And then he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, ducks his chin, and strides off, leaving Louis and Liam to stare after him.

"I don't understand what just happened," says Liam, once the shock of the moment has passed.

"You and me both, Payno," Louis replies, flicking hair from his eyes and sighing. He grabs Liam's cup and goes to fetch the lad some tea.

Harry's curled up on his bed fiddling with his mobile when Louis gets back in. He doesn't look up, doesn't offer a greeting, which is never a good sign with Harry. Louis hovers at the foot of his bed, debating whether or not to leave him be.

Not, he decides, and jumps on the bed, bouncing on his knees.

"Harry," he whines. Harry shoots him a glare and goes back to his phone, so he crawls up the bed and shoves him back, grinning when Harry's eyes go big. He shakes his head against Harry's stomach, tickling his sides. "Hazza, pay attention to me, I'm lonely."

Harry tosses his mobile onto the bedside table and smooths his fringe out of his eyes. "Don't you have laundry to do," he says.

Louis sits up on his heels, huffs. "Nah," he says, studying Harry's face. He's no idea why Harry would want to put off masturbating, but Louis's come to the conclusion that that must be what's got his panties in a bunch. He can take a hint. He can roll with it. "I've decided you should do it. You're in a right mood today, it would do you good."

Harry's tongue flicks out to wet his lips, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he frowns. He props himself up on his elbows, and Louis gets the idea now that he's being studied right back.

"Yeah?" Harry says finally, a flush blooming high on his cheeks. He shifts on the bed, and Louis glances down.

He can see Harry's erection pressing up against the denim of his jeans.

Louis pulls his legs out from under himself and crosses them."All right?" Louis asks quietly, subdued with whatever is happening here. Harry just nods, his gaze flicking quickly from Louis' eyes to his lips and back, and gets off the bed.

He looks at Louis for approval as he grabs his suitcase from the closet by the door. Louis nods once at him, keeping his expression as even as he can. As soon as Harry's pulled the door shut behind himself, he flops back on the bed, twisting onto his stomach and burying his face in a pillow that smells of Harry's shampoo.

"What am I doing?" he moans into it.

The pillow has nothing helpful to offer him. Harry brings his clothes back neatly folded, and Louis wants to give him a kiss in thanks but instead offers him a pat on the back and a, "Good lad."

He tells himself that's almost just as nice, but if anyone knows what a filthy liar he can be, it's himself.

\--

The tour goes smoothly for the most part after that. Sure, he wakes a few times to Harry rolling his hips against his mattress in his sleep and has to toss something at him to wake him up. And maybe he's taken to rubbing his water bottle in what one might call a suggestive manner whilst Harry's looking just to see his pupils blow wide. And, okay, there's that one time Harry's talking to Cher and he walks over to instruct Harry to adjust his fringe, and Cher looks at them both a bit funny.

It's possible, too, that he's taken to shoving as much innuendo into each conversation as humanly possible to make Harry squirm.

But for the most part, it's smooth sailing and Louis feels on top of the world, glad to be with the boys, with Harry, to be performing again.

He thinks he could do this forever.

\--

It's raining something awful the morning they head home. The contestants had all opted to kip at the hotel one last night after the final performance, so it's with drooping eyes and lazily hidden yawns that they hug one another goodbye. Louis is sad to see them go, but at the same time, he thinks they're on the same page, on good terms with the close of this chapter for themselves. They'll go off to do great things, most of them, he thinks: he can see it in the ambitious glint in Cher's eyes, hears it in the strength of Aiden's voice when he gets to sing again.

So he's sad to see them go, but he's also excited for the band to stand on its own. To work on the album during the day and go back to his flat with Harry at night, to play FIFA with the boys on the weekend and call his mum to ask for recipes for Harry.

This is beginning to feel like his life now, however mad it all is, and he's itching to get back to it.

Harry feels the same, if the way he's been clinging to Louis' wrist or stretching at the hemline of his shirt the whole cab ride back is any indication. He's very mellow, interjecting occasionally but keeping mostly to himself, though he does perk up when Niall, on his right, leans across him to ask Louis, "You and Haz happy to get back to the bachelor pad? When are you two hosting that FIFA tournament? We've got the whole week before we're back in the studio."

There's something in the way Harry's teeth scrape over his bottom lip, the manner in which he sneaks a glance at Louis from under his lashes, that tells Louis his answer to this is important. Louis drops his arm from where it had been resting behind the two of them and threads his fingers into the curls at the nape of Harry's neck.

"Excuse you," he says to Niall. "My wife works very hard to make sure we have a nice family home, and there you go trivialising it all. The gall of some people." He shakes his head, grinning at Niall's bark of laughter, but mostly he watches the slow, shy smile bloom on Harry's lips.

He thinks—he _hopes_ —he got that one right.

He and Harry drop their bags by the door the moment they get in. Harry makes a beeline for the kitchen whilst Louis stretches, sore from the journey. "Tea?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Obviously," Louis calls back. The toes his shoes off and follows. "It felt like we were at eighty different hotels and they all had the same shite tea bags," he says as he takes a seat at the table.

"Yes, Lou, obviously Tesco's generic brand tea tastes better than whatever swill they were peddling, the cheap bastards," says Harry lightly. He flicks on the stove and faces Louis, smiling.

"Tosser," Louis replies, rolling his eyes, and he considers saying what he's thinking, which is that there was probably some element of homesickness to it. Tea's better from your own kettle, he thinks, and it's best of all when Harry makes it.

He can't bring himself to voice that thought, but from the soft way Harry's looking at him, he thinks Harry knows anyway.

\--

After tea, Louis wheedles Harry into agreeing to order takeaway (he tells him he'll appreciate the home-cooked meal even more if he delays gratification, and then tacks on, "You should be able to empathise with that, right?"). As they put on the telly and wait for it to arrive, Harry sprawls out over his lap and can't seem to sit still, no matter how Louis strokes his hair or catches his hand and holds it between them. In fact, he's more restless than Louis's ever seen him, clearing his throat incessantly and shifting positions every minute or two.

It takes Louis fifteen minutes to clue into what's going on.

"Think I'll do laundry after lunch, d'you have anything you want thrown in?" he asks, keeping his voice light.

Harry sits up. For a beat, he says nothing. Louis wonders if he's been hard since they got in, if he was hard in the cab and that's why he'd arranged his sweatshirt over his lap, wonders—

Harry says, finally, "Can't it wait till tomorrow, maybe? It's my turn to pick the movie, remember, I wanted to watch Love Actually with you. I borrowed it from Lou for us."

This is… he's underprepared for this, has no idea how to convince a bloke to wank, had never imagined he'd have to.

"Harry, love." He goes up on a knee and strokes a knuckle across Harry's cheek. Harry's eyes flutter closed, his lashes brushing Louis' skin. "It's been over a month now," Louis says. "Don't you think it's time?"

"I did your laundry last week," Harry replies obstinately, pouting like Louis's said he can't have the last biscuit rather than _told him to wank_.

"Harry," he says, gentle. "I wasn't even mad at you, all right, you don't have to—" _You don't have to punish yourself_ , he wants to say, but he's not even sure that's what Harry's doing. "—do this," he finishes lamely, shrugging a shoulder.

Harry purses his lips so tight they go white. Then he curls in on himself, tucking his head into the crook of Louis' neck, one hand clenching Louis' shirt tight.

Louis cards his fingers through Harry's curls, mumbling, "C'mon, then, what's wrong?"

Harry's lips brush Louis' collarbone when he speaks. "One more day," he says. His voice breaks when he adds, "Please."

Louis doesn't know why this is so important to Harry, couldn't guess the answer if you put a gun to his head. He doesn't know how Harry _can_ do this, let alone why he'd want to. He does know, though, that he couldn't tell Harry no right now even if Harry asked him to quit the band and move to Argentina, so he just rubs Harry's back and says, "All right, then. That's fine, it'll be fine, I'll wait. Got loads of clean laundry in me room anyhow." He's almost forgotten they'd been watching something when an alarm clock goes off in an advert. He startles, pulling away from Haz by only a centimeter or two, but it seems too much for Harry, whose hands grip his waist.

He still has his face tucked in Louis' chest, breathing in and out against him. He's entirely too large and ungainly for the way he's curled in Louis' lap. Louis strokes his arm and then says, "Budge up," tugging on the back of his shirt.

Harry straightens, rubbing his eyes, and goes pliantly when Louis pushes him around and stretches his own legs out so that they're both spread out lengthwise down the sofa. It's not the most comfortable angle for his neck, but Harry's back is warm against him, so he'd call that a decent tradeoff.

They watch telly till the food comes, then eat curled up on the sofa. Harry steals his egg rolls but gives him a scoop of orange chicken to compensate, and when he's had his fill, Louis dumps the rest of his fried rice on Harry's plate.

And he'd loved touring, loved it, can't wait to start again. But he'd missed this, too.

When they're done, the coffee table littered with dirty plates and empty takeout containers, Harry shoves Louis backwards on the sofa. It knocks a breath out of him, half a laugh, and he grabs Harry by the shirt and pulls him down on top.

Harry lays his head on Louis' sternum, craning his neck to look up at him. He's smiling, big and goofy and sugar sweet. Louis runs a thumb over the dip of one of his dimples and the smile softens further, blurs round the edges. "Hi," Harry says.

"Didn't you say something about a film, curly?" he asks.

Harry flops sideways, positioned precariously next to Louis on the edge of the sofa. He's got an arm thrown over Louis' chest. "That's it, you've ruined the moment," he says, tossing his hair melodramatically.

"How will I ever live with myself," says Louis, and pushes him off the sofa.

Harry pads off to dig in his bag for the DVD he'd borrowed, giving Louis a moment to breathe and freak out about the incoherent disaster his life has become, as ever. But only a moment, because Harry's back in a flash, popping in the disc and collapsing back atop Louis haphazardly like he only weighs five stone or summat instead of being built like a baby giraffe. Louis physically cannot breathe for a tick, and bats at Harry until he shifts. They settle back to front, Louis' arms looped over Harry's shoulders, his hands clasped under Harry's chin.

It's all fine until they reach the bit of the film where the fit bloke is holding up signs to Keira Knightley, and then Harry starts wriggling again. Louis gasps without meaning to, on account of Harry's bum is rubbing against some, well, _sensitive areas_. He grits his teeth and tries to get himself under control.

He splays a hand across Harry's chest, pressing down. Harry stills and mumbles, "Sorry."

"S'okay," Louis says, and it is, it's fine, except that Harry can't seem to make himself stop. He keeps twitching in place, his palm rubbing up and down over his thigh. It's distracting, is what it is, so Louis goes with his first instinct: he grabs both of Harry's wrists and pins them down against the sofa on either side of them.

Harry sneaks a look at him, swallowing. Louis keeps his eyes on the telly.

He keeps his hands over Harry's until the film has ended. The prospect of extracting himself from this situation once the credit music starts up seems daunting, so he keeps them there after as well, stroking the soft skin on the underside of Harry's wrist.

Harry's legs are spread, and he's so hard it looks like it hurts.

He tips his head back against Louis, closing his eyes, inhaling sharply when Louis' hands slip back up to grasp his wrists. "Lou," he says, raspy and broken. "Can you…"

"What?" says Louis, when no more words are forthcoming. He tightens his fingers around Harry's wrists, drinking in the catch in Harry's breath.

"I want—" He stops a moment, like he's thinking, teeth digging into his lip. "I just wanna make it till tomorrow, I promise, but I… I think I need, like. I think I could use help? Can you… just, something more, okay? This is good, but I need a bit more."

Louis wonders if _this_ means the way he's pinning Harry down, keeping his hands from wandering. He thinks that it must.

"I could…" He licks his lips, considering. "I mean, I could tie your wrists, if that'd help. Would that be good?"

Harry's panting hard now. His eyes open, flicking down to Louis' left hand over his own. When he clenches his fingers, Louis feels the muscle flex beneath his own. "Yeah," he says. "I think, yeah. That'd be really good. Please."

"All right." He releases Harry, regretting how sitting up means moving apart. He shivers, cold without Harry's body next to his. "Can you—" He thinks about it, tries to guess what Harry might want. He thinks he's beginning to get the idea. "Would you tidy up the dishes here, love, and shut off the telly? Bit tired of the DVD menu, to be honest."

Harry shakes himself, blinking slowly and coming back to life one limb at a time. He coughs, fist over his mouth, and nods. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Good," Louis says, standing. He points at Haz. "Back in a jiff, all right?"

It isn't until Louis is standing in the centre of his room, surveying the pile of dirty laundry in the corner and the mess of shoes on the floor of his closet, that he realises he doesn't even _know_ what a person uses to tie someone up. Nothing in his life so far has readied him for this moment. For christ sake, he doesn't even own a tie. Haz likely owns one, but he thinks it might ruin the moment if he went back to ask, and he doesn't want to just root through Harry's drawers.

He tosses his own drawers until he finds something suitable, which turns out to be a set of braces. He stares at them in his hand, flushed and a dizzy like all the blood's rushed south in a great hurry.

"This is mad," he mutters, and slams the drawer closed.

The table is cleared when he comes back out, the room uncomfortably silent. Harry is perched on the edge of the sofa, his elbows on his knees. He straightens up when he sees Louis, and Louis can tell the precise second he spots the braces because it goes through him like an electric shock, all his muscles going rigid and his eyes widening. Louis clears his throat and pushes his hair out of his eyes with the inside of his wrist, walking up and taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Harry.

They look at each other just long enough that Louis is wondering if Harry's changed his mind, rethought this whole insane game. And then, slowly, Harry extends his hands to him, his wrists turned upward and pressed together.

Louis takes a breath, setting one brace on the table and stretching the other out with both hands. "All right," he says. "Keep still, please, love." Harry nods, his head tipped forward till his curls sweep over his eyes.

He doesn't have a strategy for this. First, he wraps the brace around both wrists, pushing them together, then thinks better of it and starts again, looping it between them and tying a knot beneath them so the metal clasps dangle below Harry's hands. He wiggles a finger underneath the brace, partly to check it's not too tight and partly to give himself something to do before he has to gauge Harry's reaction.

"Good?" he asks eventually. The finished product is a lovely bit of art Louis can't tear his eyes away from, Harry's palms resting together and his fingers curled like he's making a heart. Louis brushes a finger over the back of one of Harry's hands, and Harry shudders.

"Yeah," Harry says. He blinks rapidly, gives a shake of his head. "Really good. That's— Thank you."

Louis shifts back, resting his palms on the table. He's hard as hell at this point and it's plain as day even through his trackies, but Harry's been sporting wood all night, so he's not going to let himself feel shame over this, at least not until he's locked himself in his room for a good wank. "So, what did you... Did you want to watch another film, then, or we could—"

"Let me blow you," Harry says, mouth curving deliberately around the words, and Louis nearly falls off the table in surprise, or possibly because he's about to _have a bloody stroke_.

"Jesus, Harry," he breathes, pulling a hand over his face.

"You asked me," Harry says defiantly. "You asked me what I want to do, and that's what I want to do, so." His bound hands are resting on his knees, and Louis' can't stop his eyes being drawn back to them no matter how he tries.

"I don't—" He presses his tongue up against one of his canines, digging it in.

Harry wets his lips. "You don't want to?" he says, and Louis shakes his head immediately.

"I do, of course I bloody well do, don't be daft. But…" He reaches out to touch the brace, just to ground himself with something that isn't Harry's skin. "Are you sure?"

Harry dips his head low, their noses centimeters from touching. Louis' stares at his pink lips, mesmerised. "Yeah," Harry says. "Please, Lou."

This is an awful idea, he knows. If he does this, things will be awkward forever until Harry moves out on him and the band breaks up, and when they ask the lads in ten years how they blew their shot at fame, they'll all go, "Well, it was going fine until Louis Tomlinson let his dick take over."

He opens his mouth to say just that, and Harry kisses him.

The logistics of it are objectively awful. Harry's got nothing to support himself, their knees are in the way, and Louis wasn't expecting it at all. He jolts when their lips slot together, but Harry presses in, gives his bottom lip a little nip, and pulls off. He looks at Louis with trepidation, as if unsure of his reaction.

"How do you want to do this?" Louis asks. He bites at the nail of his index finger whilst Harry gives him a considering onceover.

"Could you come over here?" he says, scooting sideways on the sofa, swaying precariously and almost tipping without the help of his hands for balance. Louis lays a hand on his arm to steady him, then slips off the table and onto the sofa. Once he's sat, Harry cocks himself sideways on his hip, puts his weight on his hands, and goes up on his knees. He swings one leg over both of Louis' to straddle Louis' lap, overbalancing and knocking their foreheads together.

"Shite!" Louis yelps, hand flying up to clutch his head.

Harry hisses through his teeth. "Whoops."

"Styles, you are the least graceful person I have ever met," he says. He grips Harry by his shoulders and centers him on his lap, leaning back against the sofa in a way that puts Harry's bum right against his crotch. His hands press into Louis' stomach. Louis holds back a groan.

Harry's looking at him, a little smile playing at his lips. He cranes down, resting his forehead gently against Louis', and says, "I would like a kiss, please."

Louis obliges.

It's better like this, when he's ready for it and can guide things, cupping Harry's face in his hands and tilting his head. Harry's tongue flicks out to lap at his bottom lip and he gasps against Harry's mouth. It's good, it's really good in fact, even with Harry's knuckles digging into his ribs.

He breaks it eventually, though, and tips Harry's chin up to look at his pink cheeks, the way his bottom lip is just a touch swollen from Louis scraping his teeth over it. His eyes are dark, and he licks his lips once before darting in to steal another kiss, grinning once he straightens again. Louis' still got a finger hooked under his chin, and he uses that to his advantage, directing Harry's head to the side to expose the line of his neck.

He props himself up with his free hand, dips in, puts his lips to the juncture below Harry's ear, and sucks.

Harry bucks his hips, grinding his cock against Louis' through their trousers. "Fuck," he hisses, throwing his head farther back. Louis nips at him in the hopes it'll get him still, but it only sends him moving more.

"This isn't me blowing you, Louis," Harry pants when Louis pulls off to admire his own work, but he doesn't sound very fussed about it. Which is good, because Louis was quite enjoying himself there.

He thumbs at the purple mark blossoming on Harry's skin. "You're right bossy for someone who just asked me to tie him up," he says, then gives him a peck on the lips. "All right." He plunks his head against the sofa, looking down his nose at Harry and waving a hand grandly. "Get to it, then."

Harry wiggles his hands against Louis and says, "Ha, you're hilarious," but when he sits up, he frowns, looking lost. "Can you, like, help me down, d'you think?"

"Yeah, 'course," Louis replies, though he takes a moment to run a hand through Harry's hair first. "On the floor, then?" he asks, and Harry nods.

They get Harry down at the foot of the sofa, though it's slow going considering Harry's balance isn't wonderful at the best of times, let alone when he's been incapacitated. There's a horrifying moment when Harry wobbles at the edge and Louis's worried he'll brain himself on the coffee table so he shoves it quickly back with his foot, but they get him there in the end.

"Hi," Harry says to him when he's finally settled. He brings his hands up to rest on the sofa between Louis' knees. Louis spreads his legs farther apart, then tugs on one of Harry's curls.

"You're ridiculous," he says, but it comes out soft and sweet, like that wasn't what he'd said at all. "Should I…?" He gestures to his lap, at a loss on how to proceed at this juncture. He wishes he were wearing jeans instead of trackies so he could just unzip.

"Unless you want me to, like, try to do it with my teeth or something," Harry replies, shrugging, and Louis snorts and shakes his head.

"Don't need you chewing on me, thanks just the same."

He sits up enough to yank at the elastic waistband of his trackies, cringing and regretting the decision to go pantless when his dick pops up against his stomach. It isn't as if Harry hasn't seen his bits loads of times, but aside from that once he'd walked in on Louis having a wank in the loo, Harry's never seen him hard. He's at peace with his dick, thanks, actually thinks it's quite nice, but he hasn't introduced the little guy to enough people in his life to be entirely comfortable with the process.

The elastic is snug under his sac in a way he hopes won't end in any uncomfortable pinching. He clears his throat, examining the photos hung on the wall and then deeply regretting it when his eyes land on one of his mum.

When he finally looks down (because nothing's happening and, like, his dick's getting a bit cold by now, really), Harry's brow is furrowed. "Haz?" he says.

"Yeah, sorry," says Harry. "Thinking on how to go about it, 've never done this before." Before Louis can formulate a response to that, he ducks down to place a kiss on the head of Louis' dick. Just as well, he thinks as he gasps, because he probably just would've started sobbing and apologising all over the place anyhow.

Harry wrinkles his nose, looking contemplative. "'s a bit salty," he says, and Louis laughs helplessly.

"And back to Harry Styles with the running commentary," he jokes. Harry grins and bites gently at the skin on his inner thigh, snickering to himself as Louis curses and says, "You're a menace."

Louis watches him scoot up, getting a good bit of his forearms on the sofa, and then he goes up on his knees and bends down, beelining for Louis' cock. He only manages to wrap his soft lips around the tip for a moment before it slips free, slapping against his cheek. Louis's torn between moaning and making fun. "Might be easier with your hands free," he says. Harry pulls a face that spells out his disagreement.

"Here, just." Louis wraps his own hand around the base of his dick, holding it still. "Better?" he says. Harry doesn't answer, just dives back in.

He gets more in this time, lips dragging on the skin on Louis' dick on the way down. Louis fumbles his other hand up, tangles it in Harry's hair as he moans. Harry pulls off again with a pop, then takes him back in, the way spit-slickened by his last attempt. He holds there for a beat, his tongue running over the underside of Louis' cock. Louis' breath catches, and he says, hopefully both encouragingly and coherently, "Yeah, that's good, that's really good, Haz."

Harry backs off, his head coming up. He lifts his hands, giving Louis two thumbs up. He's probably the maddest, dumbest person Louis's ever met, but he's hardly going to complain when Harry takes him down again. He starts up a rhythm in earnest, lips brushing the top of Louis' hand a time or two. He looks beautiful, his eyes screwed up in concentration. Louis pets his head, letting his own eyes close and trying just to keep from coming all over Harry's face or something.

He's close, really close, his toes curling, when Harry pulls off again. He coughs, brings his wrists up to wipe at the spit on his chin. He looks hazy-eyed and out of it, breathtakingly so. Louis strokes his cheek, feeling so clumsy and drunk off the way he feels just looking at him.

"All right?" he says.

"Yeah," Harry says, "brilliant. Just. Can you help a bit, maybe?"

Louis frowns. "Help. Help how?"

"Yeah, just. Put your hand back in my hair, like." He does so, fingers curling over the back of Harry's head. "Yeah, and just. Direct."

"You want me to—" His voice breaks. "You want me to pull you on and off my dick?"

"Yeah, thanks," Harry says, like that is a completely normal thing to ask for. Louis doesn't know if he'll survive this experience, and he certainly will be ruined forever either way. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, psyching himself up as Harry looks at him expectantly, and then pushes Harry down.

It's stressful, is what it is, at least at first. He's afraid he's not given Harry time to cover his teeth, worried he'll hold him down too long and he won't be able to breathe. There's a moment at the beginning when Harry gags and Louis thinks he might have a coronary. And then there's the fact that he has to pull Harry back up by his hair, which he's terrified of until he feels vibration of Harry's groan around him, sees Harry's hips snap when he peers down round his own legs.

It's probably the most amazing thing he's ever felt, and he lasts about two minutes. Frankly, he commends himself just for that much.

He pulls Harry up and off when he feels it building, and if he hadn't been seconds from coming before, seeing Harry's slick face, the flush of his skin and the frantic rise and fall of his chest, doesn't help matters in the slightest. "Fuck," he mumbles, working himself, Harry still close enough to his dick he can feel it when he exhales, and he doesn't remember he's still got a hand in Harry's hair until he yanks it hard as he comes.

Harry keens; if there's any word for the noise he makes, it's that. His whole body goes stiff as he throws his head back. Louis snatches his hand back quickly, alarmed, and Harry crumples in on himself, burying his face in the space between Louis' legs where the fabric of his trackies pulls tight.

"Harry?" he says. He pets at Harry's head, the back of his neck, over his shoulders, feeling frantic. There's come up the front of his t-shirt and his dick's still out, and he feels a bit like he might cry. Harry still hasn't said anything. Louis doesn't know if the little noises he's making are just shallow breaths or something worse. "Are you okay, babe?"

Harry turns his head, resting it against Louis' thigh. His face is blotchy red, eyes shining. His back must be killing him, Louis thinks, and he knows he should do something about it. "Yeah, I'm okay," Harry rasps, closing his eyes and biting his lip just after, and—

And it sounds wrong, off somehow. It sounds like a _lie_.

Louis stares at him, his heart pounding. It's gone too far, _he's_ gone too far. And yeah, Harry asked for it, but Louis always forgets that Harry is young, a whole two years younger, and doesn't know what he's doing. Louis should have told him no, should have—

"Could you undo my wrists, Lou?" Harry asks, interrupting the spiral of his thoughts.

"Yeah, love, let me see," he says at once. Harry sits back up, presenting his wrists sweetly. Louis wets his lips and digs a finger into the knot, loosening it. Several seconds later, Harry's free. He sits up immediately, throwing himself on the sofa next to Louis. He rubs his left wrist, then his right, then looks up at Louis, who remembers abruptly that his dick is still out and he's splattered in come.

They stare at each other. Harry looks just as much at a loss for what to say as he is, frowning slightly. Eventually, Louis coughs, lifting his bum enough to slide his trousers up. He wipes his hand on the inside of his t-shirt.

"Well," he says, "I'm knackered."

Harry's frown deepens. "Right," he drawls.

"Yeah, so." He claps his hands. "Gonna pop off to my room now, all right, Haz?"

"Um." Harry rubs at one eye, cocking his head. There's a red line across his wrist where the brace had sat. Louis averts his gaze. "Yeah, okay, if you want?"

"Yeah, think it's best, was up much too early this morning, you know," he says brightly, or as brightly as he can given the circumstances. He stands.

"Yeah, all right," Harry says. He brings a finger up to his mouth, biting at his knuckle.

Louis bends in and pats his hair. "See you in the morning," he says, and then goes as quickly to his room as he can without qualifying it as running.

He shuts the door behind himself and doesn't come out again for four days.

\--

All right, that's not strictly true. He slinks out to use the loo when it's particularly quiet and he thinks Harry must be asleep or out or otherwise occupied, grabs whatever's closest in the fridge before scurrying back to his room like a rat. But for the most part, he sits with his back pressed against the door and thinks about what he's done.

It doesn't go well.

He's always considered himself a normal bloke, albeit one with a healthy appreciation for _other_ normal blokes he thought he'd likely come to terms with at some point, given time. He doesn't beat off to fetish porn, even, though sometimes he thinks about clicking the videos before deciding he doesn't _need_ to, the normal porn will do the trick just fine. And until very recently, he would have thought of himself as someone who would never tie up his barely-legal bandmate, pull his hair, and fuck his face, had he ever thought of it at all.

But that's what he's done now, and he's trying to come to terms.

Harry leaves him be for a day and a half. Louis can't decide if the way his stomach is churning is relief or dread, because he'd like some confirmation that Harry hasn't decided he hates him and told all the boys they should boot him from the band, but he also doesn't want to look Harry in the eyes again until Harry is old and senile and doesn't remember what Louis looked like covered in his own come. It's a dilemma, clearly.

Eventually, Harry knocks. "Lou?" he says. He sounds hesitant, unsure of himself in a way that is very at odds with what Louis's come to know of him. "I've got tea if you want it."

Louis scrambles away from the door, sitting with his back to the bed and pulling up his knees. He rests his forehead on them. "Bit busy, Haz, sorry," he calls back, now that he's farther away. He's the worst kind of coward, which he'd never expected of himself.

Harry's quiet a moment. Then Louis hears a clunk, and then he says, "Um. Okay. I've left it by the door if you change your mind."

He waits till he hears retreating footsteps before popping out to fetch the tea. Wouldn't want Harry's effort to go to waste, after all.

The next day, now that he's got confirmation of life from Louis, Harry leaves him tea three times, each time with a plate of food Louis devours gratefully because he hasn't exactly enjoyed subsisting on oranges and slices of cheese. He doesn't think about the dishes piling up on his nightstand until Harry knocks that evening and says, "Louis, I'm doing the washing up, can I have your things?"

Louis, who's sitting on his bed, looks over at the stack of dirty plates and line of mugs. "Uh," he says. It's not that bad, he thinks. There aren't any bugs or anything, at least. "That's all right, I'll do it meself!"

"I don't…" Harry's voice cracks. Louis winces. "I don't mind, I want to," he says.

Louis is probably the worst. He is utter shite, and he has no clue what to do with himself. He wishes the universe would put him out of his misery. "I'll bring them out later and you can do them tomorrow?" he suggests eventually.

"Okay," Harry says back. It sounds like a sigh. "That's… Yeah. Okay."

"Thanks, Harry," he says into his knees, and he expects to hear Harry leave, but there's only silence, and then, horribly:

"I miss you, Lou."

Louis knocks his forehead against his knee, hard. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, Hazza, me too. I'll come out soon, promise."

"Okay," says Harry faintly, and then he does go, leaving Louis to his thoughts.

\--

His thoughts are shite, really, and get him nowhere, so he only gives himself one more night with them. After Harry brings him tea in the morning with eggs on toast, he steels himself, changes his shirt, fusses with his greasy hair, shoves his glasses on, and emerges.

Harry is sitting on the sofa when Louis pads into the living room, curled up with his knees under his chin and his feet on the couch. He's staring forlornly at the black screen of the television. He doesn't look much better off than Louis feels—there are circles under his eyes worse than Louis's ever seen, even when he was sick during X-Factor—but he's likely at least showered, so that gives him one up on Louis. He jolts upward when he sees Louis, his bare feet hitting the carpet.

"Lou," he breathes.

"Harold," Louis says, shuffling his feet, and then tacks on, "you're looking well" because he is an _arse_. Harry doesn't pay him any mind, thankfully.

Not so thankfully, what Harry says to him is, "I'm sorry."

"Come again?" Louis says, because there's no way he could have heard that correctly.

But no: "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Really. I shouldn't have done that. I know you're still, like, with Hannah, and I don't even know if you're into me like that but I've just kept _pushing_ because it seems like you are. And _if_ you are, like, I know we said one more day, and I really tried, but I've never done that before and I really liked it, and I just." He shrugs. "Couldn't help it, I guess?"

He stares. Harry stares back, biting at his thumbnail.

"Harry," he says, once he's found his voice. It sounds much calmer than he feels it should. "First off, Hannah finished with me weeks ago. Or I finished with her. I don't know, it was a mutual thing." Harry opens his mouth immediately as if to speak, so Louis holds up a hand to stave it off. "Second, and more important, what _are_ you on about?"

Harry scowls, crossing his arms. "Is this some sort of punishment? You're gonna make me say it?"

"Yes, because I don't know what you're talking about!" Louis says, throwing up his arms.

"The fact that I…" Harry swallows. "That I came in my pants. All right?"

Louis blinks. He walks past Harry, sits gingerly on the sofa, and stares at his knees. "I think I may be having a stroke," he says after a while.

Harry crouches down in front of him. "Louis, are you okay?" he asks. Louis shakes himself, deliberates, and comes to a terrible conclusion.

"Come up here," he says, tugging at the sleeve of Harry's sweatshirt until Harry slides up to join him on the sofa. And then he says four words he never expected to say in this precise order, especially not to—of all people—Harry:

"We need to talk."

\--

It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most excruciating conversation in which Louis has ever been a participant.

Harry, who normally has no shame and whom he'd seen naked before he'd even known how old he was, seems to have as much interest in talking about this as he might have in getting all of his teeth pulled at once.

"Okay," Louis says. He picks at a hole in his trackies, tugging at a stray thread. "Firstly, the whole, like, disappearing act I pulled? It wasn't about you. It wasn't anything you did, and I'm— I didn't mean to let you think that, okay? It wasn't."

Harry props his arm up on the back of the couch and rests his cheek on his hand. "What _was_ it about?" he asks.

"Just." He waves. "Everything. All of it. I was having an existential crisis."

"Right," Harry drawls. Louis plays with his fringe nervously.

"Right." He nods. He wants to die. He nods again. "So. Now that that's out of the way. The tea thing."

"Tea thing," Harry says, as if he has no idea what Louis's on about.

"Yeah, and the cooking."

"Cooking," Harry repeats much in the same tone. Louis swats at his arm.

"Quit that, Harold. I'm trying to communicate with you like we're adults here, you can't just echo everything I say like you think I'm daft."

Harry deflates, huffing. "Sorry," he says, crossing his arms. "So, like. Tea and cooking?"

"Yeah," says Louis. "Is it, like, a sex thing, then?" He's trying to be gentle, here.

Harry flops back across the couch, throwing his legs over Louis' lap. Weirdly enough, that makes Louis feel better than he has in days. He sets his hands on Harry's knees and waits. "Sort of?" Harry says, after a long pause. "I mean. It's not _not_ a sex thing. I like it that way too, especially when you tell me to do something and I have to do it. But sometimes it's just… it's nice, you know? Doing things for you. Making sure you're happy."

"You know you don't have to do stuff for me in order for me to like you, right?" Louis says. "I'd like you anyway. I liked you before you started tidying up after me."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course I know that, Louis, don't be a prat."

Louis leans over to flick him on the nose. "I am not being a prat, Harry. I don't know if you realise, but this falls a bit outside my range of experience. One day we were just mates, and the next you're getting stroppy when I try to do housework and asking me to tie you up. And you didn't wank for like a month and a half, what even was that? How did you _do_ that?"

Harry's head pops back up. He stares at Louis for a long, hard moment, and then his face falls. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think of it like that. But, like. We were never just mates, Lou. You gave me a love bite after you'd known me, what, a couple weeks?"

"I didn't mean to," Louis despairs. This is going to be the bane of his existence. They're going to engrave _Gives his mates love bites_ on his gravestone when he expires of humiliation.

Harry's eyebrows fly up. "Oh," he says, lips rounding out around the word. Then he grins. "You're kind of a mess, aren't you?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, you bloody great pillock!" he says, and Harry just laughs, letting his head fall back onto the arm of the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he's _still fucking laughing_. His legs kick on Louis' lap. "I just. I thought you knew what you were doing!"

"Well now you know better," Louis says haughtily, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. Harry settles, regarding him so fondly he wants to squirm with it. "Harry, listen," he says. "I really like you."

"I know," says Harry smugly, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, stuff it," says Louis. He sighs in exasperation. "But the chore thing, Haz. If you do everything for me and I don't do anything for you, then I'm just a shite flatmate and a shite boyfriend and a shite adult, d'you get it?"

"Boyfriend?" Harry says, perking up in interest. Louis digs his fingers into his side until he jerks, nearly kneeing Louis in the face.

"If you could focus, that'd be grand, thanks."

Harry stills obediently. He chews at his lip, face screwed up in thought. "I get what you're saying. But, like. Doesn't it work how we had it? I liked it, and you seemed like you did as well, at least."

"I did," says Louis, "but I shouldn't have."

"That's silly," Harry tells him firmly.

"It is not!" Harry chuckles at him, like _he's_ the one who's being ridiculous. "Shut up, stop laughing, it isn't."

"If you like it and I like it, who cares what anybody else thinks?" Harry asks, and bursts into a proper laughing fit once more when Louis responds obstinately, "My mum."

And he's about done with being giggled at after that. He throws Harry's legs off his lap and crawls up the couch, straddling Harry's waist. He shoves a hand over Harry's mouth and holds it there till the laughter stops. "Listen. I'm not saying we stop altogether. I'm just saying there have to be conditions."

Harry says something, but it comes out muffled through Louis' palm, so he pulls his hand off. He shoots Harry a warning look for good measure. "Conditions?" Harry repeats.

"Yeah, like." He shrugs. "There must be chores you're not keen on, how about I do those?"

"But those are the best ones!" says Harry, scandalised. "If I'm doing it even though I don't like it, then I'm doing it for you, see?"

And in a twisted way, Louis does see. Moreover, he feels powerful and heady with the idea of that, of Harry doing things for Louis solely because it makes _Louis_ happy. It's miles from healthy, but he understands. "All right, what if one week a month, I do the housework instead?"

"Okay," Harry says, but he's pouting, and that won't do.

" _And_ ," he adds, like this was the idea all along and he hadn't come up with it approximately a quarter of a second ago, "you can't wank whilst I do."

"Oh," Harry breathes, and then he goes up on one elbow and reels Louis in for a kiss.

So that'd be a big, fat _yes_ on that one, then. Good to know.

The kiss is deep and dirty and there's a lot of tongue involved. "Haz," he mumbles into Harry's mouth, "Harry, I haven't showered in three days, we are _not_ having sex." Harry grabs his crotch and kneads at the same moment he stops kissing him, then lets himself fall back, leaving Louis to hold up his own weight in a lightheaded stupor.

"Okay, go shower," Harry says easily, his hand still on Louis' dick. Louis grits his teeth and gives one of his curls a good tug, reveling in the moan that brings forth.

"Careful I don't tell you you're not to wank _now_ ," he says. Harry only grins, but he lets go, stretching out across the sofa with his legs spread wide like he's in his own bloody centerfold.

It's the quickest shower of Louis' life. The handjob he gives Harry as he's making breakfast lasts a lot longer, and it only results in one burnt piece of toast.

\--

He wakes up to his alarm the day they're due back at the studio with Harry's arm stretched across his chest. It's warm and lovely and he never wants to move again, but it's also thirty minutes till they have to leave, so. "Harry," he murmurs, poking Harry in the side of the head. Harry grumbles. "Haz, we need to be on time or Simon'll have our heads, get up."

Harry turns his face into the pillow. "Tea?" he says sleepily. Louis strokes his back, nodding.

"Yeah, love. Let me get dressed and I'll meet you in the kitchen, yeah?"

Harry sits up. He scrubs at his eyes. "I want to bring it up to you," he says, and Louis grins, flopping onto his back.

"None of me mates have a wife as sweet as you," he teases. Harry snorts, ducking in for a kiss even though neither one of them has brushed his teeth. It's sickeningly domestic. But then, Louis's beginning to get the idea that _sickeningly domestic_ may be the way he and Harry work best.

He navigates the minefield of pillows that have ended up on his floor to make room for Harry in his bed, dressing quickly and dropping his shoes at the foot of the bed. He pulls a beanie on, playing with his fringe. "D'you think I should cut my hair?" he asks Harry when he comes back in, carrying two mugs he places on Louis' nightstand. "Think I could do a mohawk or summat, all edgy like."

"Yup," Harry agrees genially. "It'll give us all something to laugh about during interviews."

He giggles and darts away when Louis gives him a slap on his bare arse.

He disappears to his own room to dress and comes back in jeans and a sweatshirt, stooping to pick up a pillow at Louis' feet. Louis's just fetched a mug from the nightstand, and he looks down at his shoes, considering. He doesn't want to put his tea down to get them on, but he also doesn't want to spill it all over himself and go to the studio with a second degree burn, and Harry is right there. "Haz," he says. "Pop my Vans on for me, would you?"

Harry goes down on his knees without a word and does just that, kissing the top of the canvas when he's done. He looks up at Louis from beneath his lashes and says, "Anything else whilst I'm here?"

Louis debates the relative merits of punctuality for a brief moment, sipping at his tea. Sod it all, he decides, sets the cup on the nightstand, and pulls Harry back to bed.

This thing with Harry and him, see, it's all a bit odd, that's true. But at least for them, he thinks, _odd_ might be kind of okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom! It was sponsored in part by every gif ever made of Harry tying someone's shoe. Also, I learned literally five minutes after completing it that Harry and Louis did not move in together until September of 2011, so please suspend disbelief just that much further for me, if you would.
> 
> A big thank you to my other half, ever-faithful cheerleader, and beta, [popsongnation](http://popsongnation.tumblr.com/). Without her, I would literally never write anything, no lie. You can follow the two of us at [popsongdelusional](http://popsongdelusional.tumblr.com/) for more 1D shenanigans (please do, we're lonely, love new friends, and take prompts), or you can follow me at [whateverdelusional](http://whateverdelusional.tumblr.com/) for other content.
> 
> I would also like to mention that, although I've tried my very best, I am still an American with no British friends. Feel free to point out any Americanisms!
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys.


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